Chapter One: Potholes & Bread Rolls
Author: Sandra Gois Valley Riding
I have always loved the satisfied hiss of air brakes on big trucks when they reach journeys end. Today, I liked the sound even more; it meant we had arrived. Steve, my husband, jumped down from the truck, and after stretching his limbs, gave a little sideways leap and clicked his heels as he walked towards me looking jubilant. “We’ve done it, we’ve arrived”. I wound down the window excitedly, and he leant in to give me a kiss.
“I’m off to find Miguel,” he said, I watched him as he loped up the street with his long easy stride. Craig, our 9-year-old mini Steve, was sitting next to me; he leapt out of the car to follow after his dad. I gazed tiredly at the back of our beautiful 25-foot fairground caravan, with its chrome panels and lace curtains, which was to become our home for the next six months. Steve had towed it behind our 7.5-ton horsebox. It was a sight I had become quite familiar with since we left the Spanish port of Santander, 26 hours earlier.
Steve had driven our precious cargo of animals, towing the caravan, whilst I did my best to stay behind him in our trusty old Vauxhall cavalier, towing a second smaller caravan. We had meandered our way slowly through Spain and Portugal, every town or village our convoy passed through, people in the streets shouted and waved to us, thinking the circus was coming to town!
Whilst Steve and Craig were looking for Miguel who was a Portuguese property agent we’d met in London, I reflected on our journey. We’d had our share of mishaps, starting before we even hit the road! We had estimated that our four horses would have to be loaded into the horsebox by 2.00am. which would give us plenty of time to drive from Brighton to Plymouth to catch the ferry at 9.00am. My favourite horse Roxy, indignant at being disturbed from his slumber, adamantly refused to go into the horsebox. It took us three hours and a vet’s tranquilliser to finally persuade him! Once on the road, Steve set a fast pace, but luck was against us; we broke down, it was nothing serious, just a wheel falling off!
When we arrived at the dock, we were greeted to the sight of the ferry already sailing away towards the horizon. In winter time the ferries only run twice a week, so we had three days to wait for the next one, and with four horses to care for, we had to get ourselves organized! After a few phone calls, we found stables willing to board the horses; luckily it had a campsite opposite.
After making the horses comfortable, we settled into the caravan for the night feeling very sorry for ourselves. It was freezing cold; we lit the wood burner in the caravan and were soon cosy. We had bought the caravan only recently from a travelling circus family, they had lived in it so it was well kitted out, with a full size cooker, a separate bedroom, and plenty of cupboard space. Above the fire was a huge cut glass mirror, which added to the feeling of space; it was really quite luxurious. There was a storm forecast; the rain was already pounding onto the roof and the wind was buffeting against the windows, but we were warm and dry, our dog Toby, a black Labrador cross, was curled up in front of the fire. We should have been on our way to sunny Portugal, but on a night like this, I was happy to be on dry land.
Next day, one of our horses, Tawny, was ill. We called the vet and he diagnosed colic. He treated him and left us to keep an eye on him for the next few hours. By mid afternoon the colic had not subsided, the vet asked us to bring him to his practise, where he could be monitored closely. At 8pm. We had a phone call from the vet, Tawny needed surgery; we would have to take him to a specialist at Bristol Vetinary University.
We arrived at the University at 2 am. Lights were ablaze; we were greeted by the surgeon, who led Tawny into a brightly lit padded cell. Bleary-eyed yawning students surrounded him. Tawny was a model patient even though he was obviously in great pain. We left him in the hands of one of Britain’s best vets with a 50 – 50 chance of survival. Thankfully the operation was a success and he survived, but he would need a long convalescence, and would not be coming with us to Portugal. Tawny belonged to my sister Jenny, she had decided to give him to us only because he and Roxy had been great friends for over 12 years and she didn’t want to break up their friendship. Ironically Roxy’s reluctance to go into the horsebox, which caused us to miss the ferry, had saved his old friends life. If we had sailed, and Tawny had developed colic on the boat, he would have died.
Steve spent the next day buying firewood and trying to find someone to sell us some hay. Between the showers, Craig and I walked the horses out for exercise around the pretty country lanes bordering Dartmoor. Storms and lashing rain meant that we could not catch the mid week ferry as the captain would not take animals on board in over a force 6 wind, so it was one week later that we finally arrived at the dock.
Craig and I drove onto the ferry in our car with the little caravan full of our worldly goods towing behind. Toby the dog, had to stay in the car, he was only allowed out for a couple of walks on the lower deck for the whole twenty-four hour duration of the journey. Luckily he had a strong bladder!
From the deck, we looked down on the waiting trucks. Our truck and caravan was dwarfed by the huge juggernauts parked alongside it. I couldn’t make out Steve, but knew he was sitting patiently waiting to board. I had a moment of unease at the enormity of our adventure as I stood leaning over the railings, but it was too late now, we were committed.
Truck drivers on the twenty-four hour ferries are treated like kings. Whilst Craig and I were eating cardboard tasting croissants, Steve was feasting on delicious muesli with fresh and dried fruits, smothered in yoghurt. His lunchtime buffet, included asparagus and artichokes, prawns and palma ham, with a huge bowl of fresh fruit salad and jugs of cream. Real coffee pots full of aromatic coffee were placed on the tables for him to help himself, whilst I sipped a muddy tasting concoction from a plastic cup!
A French steward noticed Steve smuggling food out of their dining room, and when Steve told him of his family starving outside the door, he threw his arms up into the air in mock horror. “Bring them in you fool, there is more than enough food here.” Craig and I, tantalised by the wonderful smells, entered the all male dining room. We were welcomed in and waited on by the truck drivers. I have never been so spoilt in my life!
We had a very good trip; the horses all travelled well and had good appetites (always a good sign!) But when we landed at Santander it was a different story.
Steve had spent time before we set out, studying maps and working out the best route to take, this part of our preparations was of no interest to me. I have no sense of direction, nor can I map read. I had never driven on the right hand side of the road before, or ever towed anything! I coped with this by telling myself that all I had to do was follow right behind Steve. I didn’t need to concern myself with anything else except keeping right on his tail. It had worked well on the short trip from Brighton to Plymouth but I soon realized what a short-sighted attitude this had been.
When we left the ferry, I had to drive off first, along with all the other cars. The trucks were the last to leave. I planned to pull in somewhere and wait for Steve, but it was totally impossible. There were police everywhere, guns resting passively in their holsters. We drove down a ramp, and more or less, straight into the flow of a huge roundabout. I was in a terrible panic, which way do I go? Which lane should I be in? Only Craig’s cool composure kept us going. “We will keep driving round and round until we see dad,” he said calmly. I kept getting into the wrong lane. Weaving from lane to lane with a caravan in tow, and in a state of near hysteria, is no joke! The Spanish drivers were great, I met with no road rage, just tolerance and patience. I suppose living in such a busy port, they are used to crazy foreigners trying to go the wrong way around their traffic system!
After what seemed like our tenth circuit, Craig spotted Steve disembarking. We raced confidently (by this time I was an expert) around the roundabout. “Follow that horsebox,” we cried joyfully, but the traffic lights were against us, and we lost sight of him. We drove through town, and were approaching the motorway, where I would have to make a decision on which way to go. Why oh why, had I not studied the maps? I had left it all up to Steve, and now I was paying the price for burying my head in the sand, something that I’m very good at!
We desperately hoped that Steve would realise we were behind him, not in front of him, when, hey presto, waiting in a lay- by, there he was. He had been wondering why we hadn’t waited somewhere for him, and had decided to stop for ten minutes before turning round to come and look for us.
After this I was determined to stay on his tail, but it wasn’t always easy, our old cavalier struggled up steep inclines towing its heavy load, whilst the horsebox was lower geared and pulled very well up hills, and we certainly met some hills! The horsebox engine kept overheating as we climbed for a solid hour up the Picos Mountains. We had to make a couple of stops to let her cool down.
The camaraderie of truck drivers is amazing. We had just stopped on one such occasion, with the rain lashing down, when a Dutch truck pulled in behind us. “Is everything all right, do you need any help” said this huge blonde handsome Dutchman, filling the doorway of our caravan. “No thanks we are O.K. The old girl gets a bit hot going up these mountains, but she will be fine in ten minutes.” “O.K. I hope you’ve got good brakes” he said as we told him where we were heading, ” be careful going down!” He waved cheerfully and honked his horn as he passed us.
At our next stop, an English truck driver pulled up, we were making tea at the time so he stopped to have one with us. He sat there, telling horror stories about trucks with brake failures going down the steep mountain range in Portugal, just after Guarda. I didn’t need to hear this so I went to tend to the horses, who were grateful for our regular stops, I fed them all some carrots which they munched happily, then, after saying our goodbyes to our new friend, we were on the road again. It was still raining, the wipers on our car have never worked so hard as the ten wheels of the truck and caravan constantly threw rainwater at my windscreen.
Finally, we pulled into a truck park at about midnight. I took Toby for a walk on some nearby wasteland, next to a restaurant. The next thing I heard was growling, and snarling as a dogfight broke out. Toby, in true British lager lout fashion had picked a fight with the restaurants guard dog, which was merely doing its job! We bundled Toby back into the car in disgrace, and after feeding and watering the horses, we had a midnight feast at the restaurant, before crashing out exhausted, in the caravan.
We slept for a couple of hours, but trucks kept pulling in and out all through the night, their drivers chatting, and slamming doors. Needless to say, we were all a bit red eyed in the morning as we set off on the last leg of our journey. At the Portuguese border, I drove straight through, but Steve was stopped. I pulled up on the other side, I was in Portugal, but they were in Spain! I desperately hoped there would not be a problem; we were only 80 miles from our destination. As I sat there imagining the worst, the horsebox with Steve and Craig both grinning from ear to ear, came rumbling past. “Whoopee, we’re in Portugal,” Craig shouted from the open window. I gave Toby a hug to welcome him to our new home.
Now at 2p.m. we had arrived. Sixty-five feet of truck, caravans, and car, nearly blocking the narrow cobbled street. It had been 3 days since we had left Plymouth.
Suddenly Toby jumped into the front seat, his lips curled up into a doggy smile, his tail wagging, I looked up and saw Steve, Miguel, and Craig coming towards me. “Sandra my dear, how nice to see you, we were expecting you hours ago,” said Miguel in his wonderful Latin accent. “You don’t realise how slowly we travel in our little convoy,” I said, as I got out of the car. He greeted me in the Portuguese way of one kiss on each cheek, this is done, barely brushing the cheek, and kissing the air, very difficult to master. I have, on more than one occasion, nearly knocked the glasses off of unsuspecting people with my clumsiness!
Miguel is an estate agent; we met him originally in London, at an overseas property exhibition. Steve and I had been dreaming of sunnier climes, and had visited the exhibition, with the idea of maybe looking for a house in France, as we have friends there. We were talking to a man on the stand for French properties, and telling him that we had horses and wanted a place with land, when my eye was caught by the man on the next stand, gesticulating for us to come and talk to him. He introduced himself in perfect English, and told us he specialised in properties around the area of mid Portugal. We knew nothing about Portugal, and hadn’t been considering it, but he was so enthusiastic that the area was perfect for us, that we agreed to go for a holiday and have a look.
We bought a camper van, and the three of us set off on our first big adventure. My two older children Paul and Mella, were busy with their studies, so stayed at home to look after the animals (and no doubt throw a few wild parties!) We travelled for five weeks, spending about ten days in France. We looked at some wonderful farms at incredibly cheap prices, but for some reason, we both couldn’t wait to get to Portugal.
We took the scenic route, wanting to get a feel for the place, you miss so much of the real essence of a country if you just stick to the motorways, and anyway our old camper van was slow, we had nothing to gain by travelling on the faster roads. The van had a roof, which was hinged on one side. When stationary, we lifted the roof to give us more height; there was also a little pull out bed for Craig in the roof space. The weight of the roof was supported by two gas filled pistons, (the same as on the tail gates of hatchbacks and estate cars.)
One windy night, I heard a little voice saying, “Mum, the roof has fallen on me,” In my half conscious sleepy state, I muttered, “be quiet and go to sleep,” “but mum, I cant move.” Turning over, warm and comfortable, I again urged him, more gruffly, to go to sleep! “Dad, will you believe me, the roof has fallen on me!” came the miserable sounding reply. Grumpily Steve reached for the torch, and got up to have a look. There was our poor son, trapped like a breville sandwich between the bed and the roof! Luckily he was only a skinny little 8 year old, but he never trusted the pistons again, and always had two sticks of wood wedged between the bed and the roof, to act as a back up system!
The roads in Portugal were, and in some places still are, terrible! Our camper van had back opening doors, and driving through England, France and Spain, we had no problems, but when we hit Portugal and the potholes, the back door would fly open without any warning every time the van bounced over a hole or a bump in the road! Anything that was not tied down would be strewn over the road behind us. On two or three occasions, we had to stop, and run back to retrieve, a bag of bread rolls or a pair of shoes, that had been bounced out as the van lurched over another pothole, and the door flew open!
Apart from the potholes, I loved everything about Portugal; the contrasts of mountains and valleys, so different from the rolling countryside back home. I felt like I had stepped back 50 years, to a time before great machines made it unfeasible to keep hedgerows, when you could look down on land as a patchwork of fields rotating different crops. Below me now, I could see maize growing, bordered by grapevines, olive orchards, with sheep grazing beneath their canopy. An ox stood patiently hitched to his cart as his owner worked in the fields. People were tending their fields, not leaving it to pesticide sprays. There was a feeling of life.
Miguel took us to see many properties while we were on holiday; we fell in love with one. It was about five acres of flat fertile land with river frontage, perfect for horses. Across a country lane, was another plot with planning permission for a house, Steve had often promised me that one-day, he would build me a house, here was his chance! The owners gave us a rough price that was just about within our pockets; the problem was twelve different factions of the family owned it, which is common in Portugal. A father will split his land up into however many pieces he has children, then in turn, a child who had been left one fifth of his fathers land, then has 3 children himself and splits that fifth up into thirds, and so on and so on. It can end up with one person owning two square metres of land, and no paper work! It’s crazy, and very frustrating for someone trying to buy.
Our holiday was drawing to an end, we had been told that the west coast was beautiful, and decided to travel on down, have a look and hopefully do some surfing, before returning home. The landscape became flatter and drier as we travelled south, a lot of new housing estates and hotels were springing up along the coast. As far as we could make out, the law in Portugal was that you didn’t have to pay rates on new houses until they were finished. This law meant that people didn’t finish their houses!
It could have had something to do with the financial situation as well; people don’t take out mortgages to the extent that we do in England. They seem to earn money, often abroad, then work on their house for a bit, before going away to work again, but it is not pleasing to the eye of the traveller to see so many unfinished houses with building materials and rubbish piled in the gardens.
We were driving down a coastal road when we noticed a track leading towards the sea. We bumped down it, holding on tight to the piece of string that was now holding the back doors shut! To our amazement we found a little campsite. There were picnic tables and about 50 tents sprawling among the dunes. Some of them looked homemade, some were like mini bungalows, some almost hidden by clumps of pine trees. It amazed us that people just left them there, probably returning for weekends or holidays. There were places where fires had been lit, yet the whole place was deserted except for a few skinny dogs. A bright green Iguana lizard about half a metre long stared at us in surprise for a second before scuttling off. We decided to stay for the night; we cooked a meal of pork chops and sat around one of the picnic tables.
The smell of meat was picked up by the sharp noses of hungry dogs, one of them obviously had a litter of pups somewhere, she was pitifully thin and sat quietly staring at me from a distance. I couldn’t bear her penetrating eyes, and took my whole plate of food over to her; she gobbled it down, watching me warily all the time, before slinking off into the twilight. We all walked along the sand, the moon was full, and shimmered on the now calmer ocean. I love the sea and have always lived near to it. Would I miss it if I lived in the mountains?
Next morning Steve and Craig put on their wetsuits and went to try out the surf. I dipped my big toe into the white frothing water; it was freezing! I withdrew to the warmth of the dry sand. We had brought body boards with us and Steve managed to catch a few waves, but the conditions were too rough for Craig. The surf was similar to that in Cornwall with waves breaking and galloping up the sandy beach. Craig could lie on the sand, and when a wave came it would carry him twenty metres up the beach, he thought it was great fun!
We spent two more days travelling down the coast, but the beauty could not be compared to the diversity of the mountains (also the property prices were much higher!) We drove back up to have a last meeting with Miguel and the owners of the land we wanted to buy, but you cannot hurry the Portuguese, nothing had happened in our absence. We would have to return home and leave the negotiations in Miguel’s hands, we were absolutely sure that this was where we wanted to live.
Paul, my eldest son, jumped at the chance to come with us, he was between college and finding a job, coming to Portugal and helping to build a house sounded much more exciting, Mella my daughter, was l7 years old and just starting at college in London, she was moving out of home anyway, and had made arrangements to share a flat with two friends, but still she was very apprehensive about us being so far away. Of course I worried about leaving her, but Portugal is only two hours by plane, she could come and visit during her holidays.
We put our house on the market, thinking it could take a year to sell, but as fate would have it, we found a buyer straight away, we sold our business, and were ready to go. One night, we had a phone call from Miguel. The Portuguese family couldn’t agree about selling the property, and the price they were now asking was beyond us anyway. We were devastated, but Miguel in his normal enthusiastic and chirpy way said “Come anyway, I’ll sort something out for you and the horses temporarily.” We must have taken leave of our senses, but that’s exactly what we did.
Chapter Two: Good News & Bad News
offers a selection of riding holidays, and a little guest cottage for rent, in a beautiful valley in Central Portugal.
We are lucky enough to live on a 2 hectare organic smallholding, with south-facing terraces, and a stunning view of two mountain ranges – the Serra de Estrela and Serra de Açor – in central Portugal. We grow much of our own veg, have 400 vines, 60 olive trees, chickens, geese, and ducks in a pond fed by a natural spring. Our water comes from our own well. We are 5 minutes from a thriving village, 10 minutes from a small market town, 40 minutes from the historic university city of Coimbra and 2 hours from Porto.
Today it is raining. Much appreciated rain I must state, after almost 18 months without. The countryside is green again, and it is incredible how fast plants grow after the autumn rains start. If the downpour lets up later, I intend to go wandering around the forests, find us some edible mushrooms for risotto dinner, perhaps with a few glasses of our home-made red wine.
Downsides? Not many. The Portuguese driving habits take some getting used to. The summertime forest fires can be worrying, although the risks can be reduced. This is something else we are working on, promoting an information CD entitled “Gardening With Fire: the essential self-help manual for home & garden design in areas at risk from fire.
Around Arganil, Gois and Lousã, there is something to cater for all tastes, whether you want to escape from it all and live far from noisy neighbours, busy roads and other distractions or merely soak up that extra sunshine whilst you enjoy the unspoilt view from your own balcony. Both options and many more exist close to friendly, community based villages where people always make time for a glass of home-made wine and a chat. All this within a short drive of weekly markets where all the local craft and fare is on display for those who enjoy bartering in the open air for their weekly shopping. Take, for example, Arganil market every Thursday morning. On sale you will find everything from fruit and vegetables, seeds and flowers, trees and chickens, to farming implements that elsewhere have long been relegated to museums. Even locally made wicker furniture and baskets & bee keeping equipment can be found on stalls, or just lying on a blanket in front of a friendly face, who is generally willing to haggle for a bulk buy. Amidst the stalls you can also enjoy a freshly barbecued chicken or fish al fresco, washed down with more local wine.
Which brings us on to restaurants. Round here ‘Chanfana’ is one of the big regional traditions, to the extent that two local councils actually seem to be in conflict over which is the official capital of ‘Chanfana’ making. For those who are uninitiated in such delights it is goat cooked in red wine. Other treats include ‘javali’ (wild boar) and ‘leitão’ (roast suckling pig) as well as fresh fish and seafood brought directly from the coast (sardine lovers heaven) and the many traditional pork dishes. On one end of the scale the Brazilian restaurants are worth trying for those who love meat and more meat served by a waiter, in Ali Baba trousers, who delights in dramatically cutting succulent slices with his sword-like blade whistling past your ear. Nevertheless, some of the best food is still to be found in the humble backstreet restaurants where there may be only one dish on the menu and you might have to eat it perched on a stool at the bar, rubbing elbows with the locals, but the chances are it will be home-made, cheap, delicious and plentiful.